


how much my heart depends

by trilbychild



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, stop cutting falice scenes 2k18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 04:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15065072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilbychild/pseuds/trilbychild
Summary: "Twenty-five years of history has taught him that it was never just sex where Alice was concerned. It was always intense for them, passion and anger and attraction and pain and teasing and hatred and love and indomitable fire always blurring into a maelstrom of emotion, and swallowing them whole." 2x17 post-ep insert.





	how much my heart depends

**Author's Note:**

> Post-ep Falice insert for 2x17, and the scene that left us all…incredibly sexually frustrated. FP and Alice discuss what could have been. And what could still be. Title from Can’t Pretend by Tom Odell. Dedicated to the dumbässes group chat. Y’all are hella cute. Yeah, even you.

Wrapped in each other’s arms, legs more tangled than the discarded sheets, sweaty and sated, it’s a peaceful silence. Alice’s mind, however, is far from peaceful, doing overtime, wondering which of her paranoias to voice first. Twenty-five years apart is a long time. Maybe she should just get FP to fill out a questionnaire.

“Do you ever think about it?” Alice finally murmurs, barely breaking the silence, but just loud enough to pique FP’s interest.

“What?” FP rumbles huskily, his voice both laden with the lure of sleep and the tinges of arousal licking at his stomach again at the mere sound of Alice’s voice, next to him, in his bed. Her voice, her scent, her hair tickling his chin, her arms, her fingernails (and the scratches they left). He feels it all, feels all of her, utterly consumed.

“Us.” Alice clarifies, without clarifying much at all. Off his look, she adds, “Do you ever think about us? What we could have been, I mean. If we stayed and tried, if _I_ stayed-”

Her voice tails off, leaving FP to assume the rest. He doesn’t need to assume much to know what she’s getting at. There is no judgement in her tone, only curiosity. It’s a conversation they haven’t had in the last twenty-five years, but she can feel herself getting choked up at memories that have long been pushed down.

She’s thought about it, of course. Every argument and awkward silence with Hal, every eye roll at the serpent tattoo that grazes her left shoulder blade as Hal zips her into a dress (she might have always had her back to him, but she doesn’t need to be facing him to know it’s there), every time she has bitten her tongue in their bed over the last twenty years to stop her calling out the wrong name.

_The right name._

“I mean, I don’t know, you seemed to make a pretty decent Stepford wife there,” FP retorts, only half joking. He too knows this conversation hasn’t been had in twenty-five years, and the thought of returning to it terrifies him more than the Snake Charmer on her worst day. With this conversation, he’s right back in _her_ trailer as she leaves him for the last time for Riverdale’s very own Ken Doll, his smile brighter than the future his parents laid out for him.

Alice isn’t having any of it, though. His quip earns him an eye roll and a pinch to his earlobe between her manicured fingernails, which he squirms away from, firmly dragging him out of his own headspace and back into the present moment. The present moment, in which his ex-girlfriend, the woman he never got over, is practically plastered to his body from chest to foot.

“I’m serious,” Alice urges, sitting up in his bed, with only her arm holding his bedsheet to her chest and keeping her decent. Not that decency matters right now, though. Her snakeskin shirt is long discarded, somewhere between the front door and the foot of his bed, her dark red lipstick discarded across FP’s mouth. And chest. And other places.

FP must see something in her eyes, though, must hear the tone of her voice, a gentle plead that isn’t too dissimilar from the Alice he once knew. The Alice with fiery eyes, unruly hair, and a Serpent jacket to boot. The Alice who would wake him up at 3am and drag him to the roof of his trailer, begging him for tales of their future beyond the Southside, being free from the punishing existence of Sunnyside Trailer Park, and free from the prying eyes of Riverdale High.

FP sits up, eliminating the space between them, needing his eyes to be level with hers if only to avoid the feel of her staring down at him, poised for interrogation. He doesn’t know how three rounds in his bed (and another one against the wall, who is he _kidding_ ) suddenly became _this_ , but it doesn’t entirely surprise him either. Twenty-five years of history has taught him that it was never just _sex_ where Alice was concerned _._ It was always intense for them, passion and anger and attraction and pain and teasing and hatred and love and indomitable fire always blurring into a maelstrom of emotion, and swallowing them whole.

“We could have run this place, you know that?” Alice finally continues, his silence spurring her into action, “It could have been you and me. It _should’ve_ been you and me. King and Queen, remember? Just like we said all those years ago-”

“So why wasn’t it, huh?” FP finally throws back, “Why wasn’t it _you and me_? When I told you _always_ , I meant it-”

“ _Always_?” Alice interjects, her voice climbing several octaves, any attempt at leaving the emotion out of her voice long forgotten. “Okay, let’s talk about _always_ , FP. You promised me _always_. And then the minute your father died, you _shut me out_. Because that’s how it always was with us, right? You loved me until you _didn’t_. The Serpents were suddenly the _family_ that you never had. Except _I_ was. _I_ was family, and you left me behind. I would have done _anything_ for you, I was madly in _love_ with you-”

“Then why did you _leave_?” FP cuts in, standing up from the bed in nothing but his boxers as he raises his voice, just needing her to _understand_.

“Why didn’t you _stop_ me?” Alice replies, not missing a beat as she also stands up from the bed, bedsheet still wrapped around her. They both deflate a little in that moment, the reality of their words hitting home.

_If only._

As they sink back onto the bed beside each other in defeat, the silence descends upon them once more. It’s still not an awkward silence, but it’s certainly not companionable either. FP opens his mouth once or twice as if to speak, but words fail him. He knows it isn’t as simple as they like to pretend, so does she. It’s never been as simple as her leaving, or him letting her go, or their families, or their futures, or the Serpents. They’ve always known that their relationship was nothing but explosive, consuming everything in its path, burning up fuel until collapsing in on itself. Maybe supernova was their _always_.

After what feels like a lifetime, Alice once again stands from the bed with a resigned sigh, this time, leaving the bedsheet behind, firmly delineating now where she ends and FP’s bed begins for the first time in over twelve hours. Hunting for her clothes, she finds her jeans strewn at the foot of the bed, her shirt in the doorway. She puts her shirt on whilst searching for her bra, seeking the comfort of the shirt so she feels less exposed.

However, on spying her lacy bra on the other side of the room, she realises that she has to cross FP’s path to reach it, the bra draped over the lightshade of his bedside lamp. Stalking across the room, she leans past him to grab the offending item, feeling his eyes on her intently, saying nothing and saying everything as he sits on the edge of his bed. And suddenly that same snakeskin shirt makes her feel nothing _but_ exposed. Even more so when FP reaches out and grasps her elbow as she turns away.

“Was I supposed to?”

“Stop me? Probably.” Alice laughs, mostly mirthless, her eyes fixated on the hand still holding her elbow, unable to risk looking him in the eyes. FP uses the leverage he has to tug on her elbow just a fraction harder, not enough to send her toppling to the bed, but just enough that she comes willingly (like it or not, she always comes willingly), sitting next to him on the bed, their thighs brushing against each other. Too close, but also too far away.

“It wasn’t all bad, though, right? I mean, if we didn’t, you know, lose each other, then I never would have had Jughead and JB. And you wouldn’t have had Polly and Betty. Our kids, they’re our life, Ali. And I can’t regret that. I won’t.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Alice sighs, shaking her head.

“Then what are you asking?” FP enquires, although it’s mostly rhetorical. _Ask me to stay_ is the answer they both know is hanging in the air, left unspoken. With that, Alice finally rises from the bed, gathers her clothing, and then herself, and makes for the door with an air of finality, not looking back for a second. She doesn’t trust herself not to turn around and firmly cement herself to FP’s mouth again, no matter how hurt or angry or deflated or confused she is. Reaching the sitting room, she locates her shoes, struggling into them with as much finesse as she can muster. She gives a cursory glance around the room as she retrieves her coat from the back of the couch, checking that she has her keys and phone, before walking to the front door.

She doesn’t realise FP has snuck up behind her until she opens the door, his arm coming over her shoulder and slamming the front door shut again, before barely a sliver of gentle early morning sunlight can enter the room. Alice pauses momentarily, glaring at the now closed door, before whirling around to face him, finding herself immediately way too close. Undeterred, FP leans in even closer, placing his other arm against the front door, caging her in with the frame of his arms, her backside bumping up against the door, reminiscent of a certain moment in a school hallway barely a week previously.

The height difference that didn’t matter so much while they were lying _horizontally_ now overwhelms Alice, cursing in spite of herself as her heels do little to minimise the sense of FP looming over her, his breath heavy, brushing over the tendrils of her fringe, and causing every last hair to stand on end. She focuses instead of staring intently at his chest, unable to risk looking up and seeing _everything_ in them.

But even his broad shoulders, the safe solidity of the wall of his chest, the strength behind his muscular arms, all contained within the confines of the long-sleeved shirt he’s hastily pulled on (as well as the hints of a bruise on his neck, not contained by the shirt), are too much for her, evoking memories of the night before. The way those arms held her thighs around his waist, the way they wrapped around her in bed, anchored her. The way she could hear his heart beat pick up as she pressed her head to his warm chest. Her eyes flutter closed, her mind lost to the memory.

“Yes.” FP whispers, his lips right up against Alice’s ear, causing her to startle slightly, not having noticed FP drifting closer to her, her eyes opening to find FP pulling back, albeit only slightly, just enough for his own eyes to bore into hers.

“Yes what?” Alice whispers back, after a lengthy pause, swallowing hard, but not quite able to dislodge the lump in her throat. She’s not nearly composed enough for this conversation. And FP is way too close to not be muddling her mind. Focus, she needs to focus. On something other than his eyes, which are not even trying to hide the depth of emotion swirling through them. Her eyes drift down to his lips momentarily, correcting themselves before even entertaining the possibility. _Bad idea_.

“Yes, of course I think about it. What we could have been. Every damn day-“

“FP…” Alice interrupts, overwhelmed. She shakes her head, not in denial, but in a futile attempt to clear her head. It’s an answer she’s known for the past twenty-five years, an answer she’s needed to _hear_ from him for the past twenty-five years, an answer she’s _shared_ for the past twenty-five years, but the reality of finally hearing it is too much.

“-not a day goes by that I don’t,” FP continues, undeterred. Because it’s been twenty-five years and he _misses_ Alice fiercely, and he’ll be damned if he lets her go again without a fight. Or at the very least, without laying his cards on the table. It’s her choice whether she raises the stakes or folds now.

Alice stays silent, her eyes fixed on FP’s, half-pleading him to stop, half-pleading to continue. It would be so easy to get lost in his words, in the same way that she did when they were teenagers, in the same way that she did just twelve hours ago when he whispered love into her skin. Despite the fact that _she_ made the decision to knock on his trailer, dressed to kill, she’s firmly on the back foot now. Her mind wanders – her failed marriage dangling by a thread, the inevitable judgement of her daughter, among other things.

“Ali. Stop thinking so much.” FP murmurs, barely audible. The recognition of her old nickname, long forgotten, only ever his, brings her back to herself. Pulled from her own thoughts, gone is the wavering uncertainty of her Northside facade, in its place the former queen of the Southside, returning to claim what was rightfully hers. Namely, him.

Alice’s eyes lazily scan down FP’s face, taking in each line and curve of his face, both familiar and unfamiliar, until they reach his lips. She cups his cheek with her right hand, a tender caress that staunchly contradicts the need of her left hand, which fists into his shirt as she drags him impossibly closer, before slamming her lips onto his, no room for interpretation nor miscommunication about what she wants.

About _who_ she wants.

FP responds instantly, groaning into her mouth and opening for her, one arm banding tightly around her waist, while his other hand insinuates itself into her hair, the teasing that only comes with impatient longing and insatiable desire. Alice hooks an ankle around FP’s, flipping her position as she does so, slamming his back against the front door, revelling in the way he hisses at the unforgiving roughness of their role reversal.

Alice suddenly doesn’t know how she lasted twenty-five years without the feeling of FP’s body on hers – barely twelve hours and her body is practically weeping for him, arching into his touch. She runs her hands down his chest greedily, ready to relearn the contours of his body all over again. But just as Alice begins to make progress on FP’s clothing, frantically tugging at the hem of his shirt, she senses FP’s movements slowing, his touch becoming lighter, his kisses more chaste, his forehead bumping into hers.

“Hey. It still could be us, you know?” FP says simply, his voice laced with gravel as arousal continues to lick through his veins, thoroughly intoxicated. _That woman._  

“ _Could_ be, huh?” Alice retorts, although her mussed hair and kiss-swollen lips undermine any attempt at malice, the tone of her voice just _slightly_ too airy to sound genuinely annoyed with FP.

“It’s _gonna_ be us this time, woman.” FP replies, not missing a beat, trying to level her with a glare, but a smile won’t stop tugging at his lips instead.

“Good, it better be,” Alice smirks, twining her fingers with his, her tone dominant even as he leads her back through the trailer, in a move reminiscent of her own actions when she first walked through his door, “Now take me to bed.”

_This time, he asks her to stay._

_And so, she stays._

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I’ve written and published in about five years, so all feedback is welcome. Just go easy on me, folks. I’m a delicate soul.


End file.
